


The Iron Underneath

by serotoninwife



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Fascinating, Not a ship fic, Other, Time Hops, but their relationship is included, for the first and only time, i am writing a fic without romance, just an fyi this is NOT a pro lyanna/rhaegar fic, so I tagged it, so here is a bit of a character study with my own personal fanon of her life, tw: grooming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24799984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serotoninwife/pseuds/serotoninwife
Summary: We’ve seen her beauty, but not the iron underneath. Not yet.
Relationships: Arthur Dayne & Lyanna Stark, Lyanna Stark & Ned Stark, Lyarra Stark/Rickard Stark, Rhaegar Targaryen/Lyanna Stark(non positive)
Kudos: 22





	The Iron Underneath

**Author's Note:**

> so since the beginning of my time within the asoiaf/got fandom, i’ve stanned lyanna. over the past year and half or so, i’ve changed my stance on her, but i still love and adore her, just differently from how i did before. i’ve had this work in my mind in many different forms over the four years that i’ve been in this fandom, and i’ve finally settled on an outline and written the first chapter. so without further ado, here is a character study on my take of lady lyanna stark.

Lyanna’s first vivid memory was the death of her mother.

Her first memory at all was that Lyarra’s belly had been big. Lyanna vaguely remembered placing her tiny hands on it and feeling some mysterious other kick a response through a wall built of their mother’s flesh. Lya was three years old when her mother’s screams finally stopped to be replaced by the screams of a babe.

The four young Stark siblings had been brought to the Lord’s chambers by a servant girl with calloused palms and fingers. Ned had held Lyanna’s little hand, fretting over her constantly. Little Lya could not understand why, and had been rather annoyed. The one indication that something was amiss was the fact that Brandon was quiet. The young child thought that she had never seen her brother so well behaved, yet so solemn. It chilled her as she toddled along, one hand in her brother’s, the other in that of a faceless servant. When the door opened, and the four children saw their parents’ bed doused in scarlet muck, Ned had tried to cover Lyanna’s eyes, but the young girl wriggled free from her brother’s grasp and ran towards her mother.

Lady Stark was lying on that detested bed of blood, her skin pale and waxy, her lips as pale blue as winter, her locks of dark hair fanned on the pillow around her like the intricate roots of of a northern oak exposed and pulled up from the soil by some violent southron storm. Lyanna remembered the maester speaking in hushed utterances to her father, whispering words of caution and words of condolence as he held some small wriggling thing in a bundle of linens. She went to her mother then, and crawled up onto the bed to settle in the space between her right arm and her torso.

“You look sick, Mummy.” She whispered. Lyarra had tears in her wide and fearful brown eyes as she brought a shaking hand up to push back her daughter’s hair from her forehead.

“I _am_ sick, my Lya.” She whispered. Lyanna didn’t like the way she spoke. It was a foul croak, a far cry from her strong and loud voice that had always carried through the halls of Winterfell. The young girl put a finger to her mother’s lips, from which soon escaped a sob. Lyanna snuggled in, rested her head upon her mother’s shoulder, and looked to her father. She could now see that what he held was a baby, whose too-small limbs wriggled and shook. Lord Stark was crying but made no sound. 

Her mother had cried as well, but her cries had been audible. With the last of her strength, Lady Stark summoned Brandon and Ned and Benjen onto the bed. Baby Benjen had to be placed in her arms by a servant, Lyanna unsure of which one. Rickard stood beside her, still crying his quiet tears and holding that tiny babe as Lyarra grabbed hold of his hand, her forefinger clutched by that of her fifth and final child, a girl, as the warmth of life left her. Everyone was silent. Brandon and Ned seemed to understand what had happened as they cried as silently as their father. Lyanna, however, did not.

Lyanna recalled being, more than anything, annoyed at her mother for going cold. She shook her, asked her to move, and when she did not, Lyanna hit her, angry and frustrated, wanting her to move and to play as she always had. But Lyarra remained unmoving. She would never move again.

The baby that had been born too soon and that had taken her life was named for her. They called her Arra for short. She died within the second week of her life.

Both Lyarra Starks were buried quickly, their lives inconsequential, their existences condemned to be no more than footnotes in the histories of the Stark men. Among the Stark women of that generation, only Lyanna was granted more than a brief note in that wretched book, and the gods themselves be damned if she would let anybody but herself tell her story.

+

Lyanna Stark was eight years old when she first determined to live a life of consequence.

Sarra Cassel found her friend stitching the Stark sigil onto a handkerchief beneath the great Weirwood tree in the Winterfell Godswood. She lifted her skirts and ran, calling Lyanna’s name. The young Lady Stark looked up, gently placing the embroidery in her lap.

“What is it, Sarra?” She asked. The young Cassel girl had tears in her eyes.

“Oh, Lya, you can’t imagine the sorrow! Vayon‘s mother has just died not an hour ago.” Sarra wept. Lyanna stilled, her jaw clenched before she picked up her needle again.

“Her title was _Lady Poole_ , not ‘Vayon’s mother’. Surely she is owed at least the decency of association to her title in death.” The image of the last Lady Stark materialized in Lya’s head. Her mother’s belly still swollen from pregnancy, the weakened cries of her short lived sister, the fearful sobs from her mother, the pained and silent tears from her father. She made a mental note to write a letter of condolence to Vayon and Ser Poole later on. The first thing that she had ever learned of the world was that it was a horrible thing to lose a mother.

“I— Yes, Lyanna, you are all too convicting. I— Oh gods, please forgive me. I meant no ill wish to the- the memory of La- Lady Poole!” Sarra wept, falling to her knees, her tears dropping into the soil, watering the root of the ancient Weirwood. In that moment, Lya was struck with shame as images of the newly deceased Lady Poole flooded into her mind— most specifically, Lady Poole with Sarra Cassel. She remembered her braiding her hair, she recalled her wiping her tears, she recalled forcing her son to apologize to her when he had torn a hole in the dress of her favorite poppet. Lyanna blushed a deep red, embarrassed at her thoughtless judgment before turning to her friend and taking her feeble hands in her own.

“No, no, Sarra, it is _I_ who must apologize. I should not have admonished you. I know that she has been a mother to you since your own mother died last year in childbed with your brother. I’m so sorry for my harsh words.” Lyanna whispered. Sarra did not quite form any words, but simply reached out her arms, her brown eyes still wet with tears as Lya accepted her hug. She pet her friend’s golden hair gently as she sobbed into her shoulder.

“It- It was- It was a bloody fe- a bloody _fever_ that killed her, Lya, oh _seven hells_ it isn’t fair!” Sarra shouted and sobbed, her small body heaving as it felt the burden of the new and sudden of loss. Lyanna trained her eyes on the unmoved pool before her, holding her dear friend in hysterics, and she thought of all the women she had known who had died free of legacy. Lady Cassel. Lady Poole. Lady Stark. All had been human, all had been whole, and all had died and the world still turned just as it had before, unchanged save for the children they left behind. How could women born into such a world lead lives of such little consequence? And in that moment, as she held her friend mourning the loss of still another wife, the young Lady Stark made a silent pledge to the Old gods of the North.

_I will not live or die quietly. I will scream when I go and the world will not forget my name. I am Lyanna Stark, and I will **not** die to be forgotten._


End file.
